Paris Fashion Week starts tomorrow, but I am going to Corsica today. It’s taken me a long time to be able to reach this point. I used to be so prepared, excited, curious, on edge about Fashion Week. After all, so much used to be at play.

I was one of the first influencers, back when we were called bloggers. Ten years ago – a time before Instagram – I began writing a blog, sharing my illustrations and photographing my thirst for style. Everything I was doing was new. The non-journalistic tone. The freshness. The authenticity. The photos of real people. The clumsiness of someone who had no idea of the world she was stepping into. Back then I could never have imagined how fashion would snub me – and then absorb
me completely.

It was a tough journey. I had a lot to prove and I learned the hard way, but through it all I was endlessly curious about that glittery, happy, and cruel world. That excitement about travelling in uncharted territory lasted for years. And then one day, I had become part of the establishment. My lifestyle was amazing – who in their right mind wouldn’t have absolutely loved it? I was overwhelmed by presents. I was in magazines. People who just a few months before had slammed doors in
my face started treating me with the sort of deference you give a queen. After years of not really knowing what I was going to do with my life, I would arrive at a fashion show and overhear the team at the door whisper into their walkie-talkies: ‘Garance Doré is here.’ Seriously.

I was not going to let go of what I had created for myself. Not even when it began to give me panic attacks and left me crying myself to sleep. Not even when it filled me with despair at my body, which was not slim enough to actually wear most of those presents, all in sample size, of course. Sometimes I’d whisper to my friends, ‘I think I hate Fashion Week’, and they’d reply, ‘Of course, you do. We all hate Fashion Week – but people would kill for your spot.’

And so I kept going. New York, London, Milan and Paris. Carrying heavy bags stuffed with clothes I would only wear once, dealing with front-row politics, watching models go by. Sometimes there was a spark, a tear. A moment of utter creation, beauty, of communion even. Not enough to bring me back to the joy.

One day my sister came to meet me in Paris. Eager to make her happy, I decided to pull a favour and take her to a really sought-after show. I was so proud to finally open the doors of the dream to her. We were seated on the front row between two famous actresses. The show was joyful and inspiring, and I thought to myself, ‘Wow, she got the whole package!’ Afterwards, we walked silently for a long 10 minutes, before she turned to me and said, ‘I don’t know how you do this. That was the worst thing I have ever been to. It was so fake and sad and depressing.’ Her words hurt. I was insulted and incredibly angry. I told her she was ungrateful and spoiled, that tickets to a show like that was like gold dust. I stayed angry a while and we never talked about it again.

It all fell apart a few years later. There were panic attacks and tears, and I finally broke down, collapsing before a show. From there I began a long road to rediscovering who I was. I started picking and choosing the shows I attended. Then I suddenly realized that I could miss more shows, and more, and more. Until one day, I knew I was done with fashion weeks.

It was a risk. I knew I would lose jobs and all those new Instagram influencers would take my spot. But I realized that I was happy to leave it to the people who still loved it – and I’d deal with the consequences later. Slowly my life became mine again and as time went on, I understood that my love of fashion could thrive in different places and in different ways.

So here I am. Paris Fashion Week is starting tomorrow and I can only smile at how happy I am that it is no longer part of my life. I wish the very best to all my friends getting ready for the big shows – but I am flying away.